Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood;<br>that I faught against mockery;<br>that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth.<br>I repaid vileness with doves.

A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don't slip from his hands but fly past him through the air$$$ high as birds$$$ high as prices.

I want to see the thirst<br>inside the syllables<br>I want to touch the fire<br>in the sound:<br>I want to feel the darkness<br>of the cry. I want<br>words as rough<br>as virgin rocks.

There were thirst and hunger$$$ and you were the fruit.<br>There were grief and the ruins$$$ and you were the miracle.

In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

And I watch my words from a long way off.<br>They are more yours than mine.<br>They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

With your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything$$$<br>without anguish$$$ death$$$ winter waiting along it<br>with their eyes open through the dew.

Where were you then?<br>Who else was there?<br>Saying what?<br>Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly<br>when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The seed of suffering in you may be strong$$$ but don't wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.